


nearer to spring

by mswyrr



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Bedside Hand-Holding, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Talking Like Adults, and a good cuddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16016795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswyrr/pseuds/mswyrr
Summary: Post-1x03 AU. Julia lives, but David is still the conspiracy's chosen patsy.





	nearer to spring

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my beta readers, ecouter-bien and laurelsalexis, for taking the time to look over it!
> 
>  
> 
> **This fic technically branches off into AU territory a couple scenes into 1x04, which I hope isn't too confusing!**

Only family was allowed in, closer to the operating theater. David took up a spot out in the waiting room. Watched the sky outside the floor to ceiling windows go from black to slate grey as he ran the bombing over and over in this mind. Julia’s face, so lovely and warm. _I want you right beside me_. The gentle squeeze of her hand emphasizing the offer, which David could barely comprehend at the time.

Beside her, but not invisible. Not there as an instrument of the state, protecting its representatives, but as himself. How would that even work?

And Tahir Mahmood’s face, sweaty and nervous. But “nervous” was the natural state of young aides. David had thought nothing of it. Hadn’t even poked through the bloody suitcase.

He should have. If he’d been thinking clearly, not mooning over the principal, he would have. If he’d asked for a reassignment, it would have been Kim out in that hall. She’d have searched it. Given her life if she had to, to do her duty. Like she had, just hours ago.

Round and round it went in his head, churning with DCI Sharma’s probing questions. The man didn’t think much of David. David could hardly blame him.

Around 04:00 he settled into the quiet attentiveness that he’d learned, working protective duty. Aware of what was going on but calm. It was almost meditative. He’d come to associate that feeling with Julia recently. Being there for her, even when she didn’t notice.

It was all he had to give. Just sit there and wait to hear how badly he’d let her down.

Hours later, Roger Penhaligon ushering a small, grey haired woman--Julia’s mother?--in was the first sign of news David had. He stood, moved to speak to them.

"What the hell are you still doing here?” the other man snapped, throwing him a dirty look. “You had your job and you failed." He turned his head away before he’d even finished speaking.

The words hit true and David paused, halfway down the row of chairs, unsure. But he needed to know more than he needed to respect that pillock’s wishes, so he continued, coming to stand at the end of the hospital corridor, as close as he dared, straining to make out their conversation. Julia’s ex said something. The doctor nodded. A moment later David caught the words “made it through surgery” and felt his knees actually go weak. He had to reach out a hand to the nearest chair and sit down hard in it.

He took several slow breaths, staring at the mass produced hospital art on the wall in front of him like it was the most beautiful sailboat he’d ever seen. Once the shock wore off, he had to press his hand to his mouth to cover the smile there.

There were people in this waiting room whose news wasn’t good. It wouldn’t be kind to go around smiling like a maniac.

And coming through surgery wasn’t the end of Julia’s fight, it was the beginning. David knew that himself. Recovery from an explosion like that was a long road. Harder for some than others.

But she was here, alive. His eyes burned with unshed tears and his head was throbbing.

The long night he sat up waiting was hitting him now that the adrenaline was fading. Might as well go rest while he had the chance.

David dragged himself up out of the chair and headed back to the safe house. When he got there, Vicky and the kids had gone for the day. He ate some toast, showered, and got in a good four hours of sleep before the protective officer knocked at the living room door, waking him.

“There’s a DS Rayburn and DCI Sharma outside,” she said.

When David groggily opened the door DS Rayburn asked if he could come down to the station. He threw on his street clothes and shoes and got in the back of their blue sedan.

“Heard the good news?” Sharma asked, casually. His eyes were looking back at David in the rear-view mirror. His expression wasn’t friendly. “Looks like the Home Secretary will pull through.”

“Yeah,” David said. “I heard.”

“Good news,” Sharma repeated, still looking at him.

“Aye,” David said, not sure what the man wanted from him, “it is.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

 

\--

 

DS Rayburn slid a photograph of Andy in his military dress uniform across the table. “Do you know this man?”

David pulled the photo closer with his index finger, looked down at it. Not because he needed to, just because. Just to have a minute. Andy was a good mate. Had been a good mate. He wasn’t smiling in this photo, but it was from before the roadside bomb. David could see in it his face; it wasn’t just that there weren’t any scars. There was hope.

But time ran out for everyone at some point, didn’t it? David knew this was how it would end the first time he lied to the detectives about it. Just as soon as he’d finished telling his lie, he knew. They would identify Andy and it wouldn’t go well for him. Loss of his job, possible criminal prosecution. And, for what?

A few more weeks with Julia.

He again pictured her face the way she’d looked at him just before the speech. Kind and warm as she offered him a chance at something. A future. If he’d known that was possible, he might have done things differently.

Even if she could forgive him being best mates with the man who shot at her, a criminal prosecution would make him bad press for her. But they might go easier, if he cooperated.

“Yeah,” David said, nodding. “Yeah, I do.”

Sharma and Rayburn exchanged a look. “Do you know his name?”

“Andy,” David said. “Andy Ampsted. I served with him in Afghanistan.”

DCI Sharma flipped open his folder and slid a photo from the rooftop CCTV footage at David harder than necessary. “Who are you speaking to in this photograph?”

“The same man,” David admitted. There was no need for this Socratic method stuff. Teasing the truth out bit by bit. “I can correct my statement,” he said, “if you want.”

Sharma looked at David like he’d rather slug him. He pulled another photo out of his folder, this one from the CCTV footage of David speaking to Tahir. “I want to know why you spend so much time chatting with the Home Secretary’s assassins, PS Budd.” He tapped Tahir’s grainy head. “He your mate too?”

“What?” David looked between them, his posture stiffening. What were they implying? “No. I barely knew him."

“You’ll forgive us,” Rayburn said, eternally the Good Cop in this duo, “if we find your word suspect, David. Given the false statements you’ve made.”

“What was in the suitcase?” Sharma asked, right on the heels of her statement.

“I told you, papers,” David said. “I just saw papers.”

“We’ve found materials in a search of Mr. Ampsted’s apartment suggesting ties with radical groups. Notes and plans for his attack. He believed the Home Secretary was to blame for the war, the IED that nearly ended his life.” She gave a deliberate pause. “The same IED that nearly ended yours too. David,” she said, not unkindly, “did you share your friend’s views about the Home Secretary?”

David's stomach dropped. It was clear where this was going. From their perspective, all his lying seemed like part of the bigger plot. His hopes of them going easy evaporated: it would take some doing to get out of this at all. “For the record,” he said tightly, “I stopped him, up on that roof.” Since he was already damned, he might as well get this on tape. “Someone ordered the support vehicles held back and I saved the principal’s life.” _That's_ where they should be looking.

“And then let Mahmood through with barely a glance,” Sharma said.

“I watched my friend blow his brains out,” David said, pushing the CCTV photo back at them. “I stopped him. If I wanted her dead, why would I do that?”

“Attack of conscience?” Sharma asked, gently.

David shook his head. They weren't going to listen. “I want to talk to my rep,” he said. “Now.”

 

\--

 

David had quit smoking four years ago. Vicky had guilted him into it, for the kids’ sake. He never regretted that so much as he did in the hour he spent cooling his heels, waiting for the rep to show up.

When someone finally did walk through the door, it was all wrong: a middle-aged man in a black check Savile Row suit. “Good morning,” he said, in a cut glass accent, and took the seat next to David. “Geoffrey Charles, solicitor at law. I’ve just been acquainting myself with your case--”

This guy was entirely outside David’s price range. “Look,” David said, “let me save you some time. I think you’ve got the wrong room, mate.”

Two neatly manicured greying eyebrows went up. “Have I?” He removed a small, silver smartphone from his inner breast pocket. “Are you not PS David Budd?” He held out the phone; there was a picture of David’s face on the screen.

“I am,” David said slowly. “But I’m waiting for my fed rep. You--” looked like he should be defending Rupert Murdoch from a defamation case. Or asserting BP’s mineral rights, “don’t look the type.”

“Oh!” The man gave a light laugh, as plummy as his accent. “I take pro bono cases, you see. I’ve been sent from the legal aid clinic.” He patted his pocket again and then removed an envelope. “I’ve been told to give you this.”

It was a plain white envelope, the half-size ones used for thank you cards. David tore it open, pulled out the white card inside.

Printed in plain font was the address of the safe house his family was living at. David felt like someone had reached into his heart and squeezed it. He stared down at the card, and then up at the peacock in the nice suit.

“What is this?”

“I was told you would understand,” the man said. Pulling out his briefcase, he offered David a paper. “If you’ll just sign there I can begin representing you. My first piece of advice,” he gave another, even lighter laugh, “is that you don’t speak to the police. As one yourself you should know better than that.”

Was this some kind of threat? His behavior was so casual… “Who gave you this?” David asked, holding up the card.

The man’s face saddened. “If you think about it, I believe the answer will become obvious.” He seemed to regret threatening David’s family the way he’d regret a minor _faux pas._

These were the people who knew Julia’s itinerary. The ones who could get a bomb into St Matthews. The ones who’d found his kids’ school. And now the safehouse too.

There were a limited number of people who could manage that. Anne Sampson was on the list, at the top thanks to her prior threats. But she was hardly alone. David didn’t have enough information to even start guessing at which ones were dirty and which weren’t. There was no way to get help without asking, and asking the wrong person would provoke them.

A net he hadn’t even known was there was closing around him and he didn’t have the foggiest idea how he could move without getting his family killed. Who to trust. The room seemed to contract around him, all the air sucked out.

David tucked the card with their address into his own pocket. As if that could protect them somehow. He picked up the pen and signed his name on the paper. Geoffrey Charles, solicitor at law, was very polite and looked away when David’s hand visibly shook.

 

\--

 

As an accused terrorist charged in three separate attacks, David had been deemed a flight risk. No bail. He’d be shuffled back and forth between jail and court until they decided what to do with him.

He missed going for a run in the morning and having a beer at night. He missed seeing his kids. Apart from that, prison wasn’t that different from the rest of David’s adult life, first in the military and then the police. Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut.

Follow the rules.

There was even a uniform: grey jogging bottoms, a blue t-shirt, and a grey jumper. It did lack for style, compared to the Army or his PPO suit.

Vicky used to like to see him in his dress uniform, when he was in the service. She thought he looked sexy. Powerful. When she looked at him like that, he could almost believe it. He spent ten mostly happy years living up to what she saw when she looked at him. That look in her eyes had made all the shit he had to do worth it, until he couldn’t pull the performance off well enough anymore.

She was wrong and she’d always been wrong, about the whole thing. That uniform didn’t mean power: it meant you were someone else’s tool. They used you until you broke and then tossed you. As long as there were more young people than good jobs, there was a ready supply of new tools.

The uniform here was uglier. Bottom rung of the shit ladder. But it was all the same ladder.

He wasn’t allowed to mingle with the other prisoners, for fear of what they’d do to him. Whether as a former copper or a terrorist. His days were mostly spent in his cell, apart from thirty minutes a day outside. Sometimes that was cancelled due to weather. Personally, he’d rather be rained on for thirty minutes than not get to leave his cell for 48 hours, but nobody asked him.

On court days, the guards would come in and shackle him up. Step forward. Put your arms out. Put your arms down. They were all very professional. The way he’d have been with an accused terrorist, back when he was on their side of the equation. Then there was a ride to court, a change into a suit, and more waiting, first in a holding room and then in the courtroom itself. There wasn’t much to do there. After court, the same cycle repeated in reverse.

Arms up, arms down.

Wait in a box.

Pasted to the beige cinder block wall behind his bed there were five pictures of Ella and Charlie. Candid shots, probably taken from Vicky’s phone. Someone had printed them out on photo quality paper and taped them to the bottom of his food tray.

They were reminders.

Somebody wanted him here, a warm body with a big, show trial, drawing all the attention. Taking the blame. And they’d hurt the kids if he didn’t.

They’d arranged a solicitor and a barrister for him. In due time, he expected they’d arrange his death too. He could accept that, but the thought that they might come after Julia again tore him up. He wanted to get word out, that it wasn’t over. Him being locked up didn’t make her safe.

But she had protection. People she could turn to. Ella and Charlie just had him.

And their mum, who kept trying to visit. He refused to see her; couldn’t be sure what he’d do if he was faced with her crying and demanding to know why he’d done such terrible things. He hoped she was being kind to his mum. The thought of her seeing her only kid on telly as a terrorist brought up feelings he had to push aside.

Nothing he could do about that. Literally nothing.

There were books to read, as he waited for the trial to start. A bloke with a squeaky library cart delivered them to the isolated cells. David started with the autobiography of Johnny Cash and then moved on to a tattered old brown volume on ancient Egypt.

Among the details of the Old and New Kingdoms he read an account of servants, knocked on the head and then entombed alive with their dead pharaoh. Anger sparked in his belly on their behalf. Wasn’t one lifetime of service enough?

He closed the book, frowning.

As he looked around it occurred to him that the cinder block of his cell was a kind of stone tomb. And what was he, but a loyal servant of his country? At that thought, he started laughing. He laughed so hard that it started to hurt. He couldn’t get enough air and the air in here was stale, dead. The room seemed to be getting smaller around him. The laughter became sharp, gasping sobs that felt like jagged glass shards cutting him up inside. There were no tears, just the desperate feeling of being suffocated. He curled on his side on the hard mattress and closed his eyes tightly, riding it out.

 

\--

 

David didn’t see much of his solicitor. Just in passing, at court appearances. David wondered if Charles was another invented identity, like Richard Longcross. But his records must check out, otherwise they wouldn’t let him in court.

If it was a fake, it was a very good one.

The one time he did visit, it seemed to be solely for appearances. There were a few papers to sign and some rambling about court etiquette, as if a former police officer wouldn’t know that. David seethed in silence until the man suggested that it helped paint a sympathetic figure, to have family members there.

David dragged his eyes away from the wall he'd been staring blankly at and sat up, muscles tensing. "You keep them out of this," he gritted out. While doing everything in his power to give the impression that he might spring across the table and strangle the man. It wasn’t hard; he was considering it.

Charles was a tall man, but comfortable in his middle-aged pudge. He’d glibly waved off the guards and asked them to unshackle his client, please.

David could do some real damage before they pulled him off.

Mr Charleston’s eyes widened. “It’s my job to advise you in your defense,” he huffed.

Was he trying to be cute? He couldn’t be unaware that this defense was a sham. “We both know what your job is,” David said, and continued to stare him down until the other man looked away.

 

\--

 

The first day of his trial wasn’t that different from the other court dates. Same routine, same van. The streets outside the court building were filled with people, though. Shouting and carrying placards. Who could blame them?

That’s what you did when the villain walked on stage: boo and hiss. Cry for his blood.

David looked down at his hands, his stomach twisting. How bad was it for Ella and Charlie at school? With a terrorist for a dad. Charlie had just been starting to make friends at the new place…

Did they already hate their _da_? If they didn't, it would happen soon. In order to move on, they'd have to learn to hate him. Distance themselves from his name. Learn to live in the safety of the lie whoever was behind this had constructed. He had to hope that they would, as much the thought killed him.

The van passed through the corridor set up by police and into the darkened underground car park. The noise of the crowds faded. He pushed the thoughts down, firmly, and followed the routine. Out of the van, changing into his suit, waiting. Sitting in the dock and staring at the far wall as the trial began.

The prosecutor entered and then his barrister, another venerable middle-aged posh type, who David had never actually met. Mr Charles was sitting behind him. Today’s suit was dark blue and, as usual, double-breasted.

David was focused on tuning it all out when a gasp went through the audience. He turned to look.

Julia.

It was such a relief to see her. He’d heard she survived, but nothing else. Nobody was interested in giving the culprit updates on his victim’s health, after all. She was sitting in a lowkey black wheelchair, which her ex-husband was directing. But she looked strong: her posture was upright, her expression alert. She was wearing a chic grey suit-jacket and that purple blouse she liked.

David felt an instant of simple joy at seeing her before she turned her head and looked straight back at him. He felt his breath catch; her look was so full of cold rage he felt it like a slap. He had never seen a look like that on her face.

For long seconds, he couldn’t look away, until the call of “all rise” drew him to his feet for the judge’s entrance.

He felt sweat prickle at his hands and a cold, hurt confusion that he couldn’t shake. Of course she hated him.

What did he expect? He just hadn’t thought of her being part of this charade, somehow. But she would be: she was never one to back down from anything. And he was now a monster she had to face.

Someone who had seduced her and tried to kill her. Bombed civilians, done… honestly, a list of things so long and so fake he hadn’t bothered to memorize all of it. Left her dealing with the long months of physio he recalled all too well. Perhaps permanently disabled.

David sat back down, trying not to slump around the hollow feeling inside him.

He’d never been so alone in his life. There had always been people to protect. His family, his comrades. He gave them everything he had and valued their good opinion of him. But now protecting them meant letting them hate him. It twisted things all around inside him.

He had long ago accepted the idea of dying openly, nobly for someone. But to die alone and despised? It was empty and hopeless in a way he struggled to bear up under.

What it all amounted to, after both opening statements concluded, was this: he was a nutter. A nutter who was either (according to the prosecutor) a criminal mastermind or (in the eyes of his barrister) an idiot who was crap at his job.

If those were his only two options, David honestly wished there was more truth to the prosecutor’s case and less to the defense.

 

\--

 

Would Julia ever be able to walk again? The question circled around in his mind as he was carted back to his cell.

He’d loved the way she moved, graceful and confident. Making any place her own, no matter where she was. Tall in those heels of hers, meeting the eyes of the men around her.

Would she spend the rest of her life in a chair, looking up at everyone?

His barrister wasn’t wrong: he was an incompetent nutter. He hadn’t earned her hatred for the crimes he was accused of, but he had failed her. Left her wounded.

If only he’d listened to Vicky and got help months ago. Swallowed his pride and accepted that he couldn’t be the man he was anymore. Whoever these people were, they would have had to find another patsy. Maybe someone who made it a little harder for them, at least.

Instead he’d failed everyone he loved.

David sat on the bed staring at the wall. When his food came, he ignored it until the (vaguely tempting) smell faded and it grew cold. Then he flushed it down the toilet and returned the tray to the door slot.

His stomach growled all night. In the morning, he tossed out the oatmeal that came, even though his mouth watered for it. The empty feeling turned to a burning ache. He drank some water from the sink periodically. That helped. Slowly the ache faded and he just felt dizzy when he stood up. But the light-headedness made sitting through court without thinking or caring about what was happening easier. Lent everything a sense of unreality. He observed all of this with a careful, satisfied detachment. It was something else to focus on and that helped. To feel in control of something, anything.

 

\--

 

The dizziness did become a problem. The second week of the trial, a new guard was part of the detail escorting him back and forth from court. This one was young and unprofessional enough to let his anger show on his face.

On the way back to the van after court, when every hobbled step felt slow and strange, the new guy decided to give David a shove in the back. He fell, hard, against the side of the van and slid to rest on the concrete of the basement car park’s floor.

“Christ,” the older one said, “where’s your head at! We’re going to have to write this up…”

The young one wore a mulish expression, his cheeks flushed red. “I barely touched him!”

David resisted the urge to roll his eyes: who had trained these jokers anyway?

“I tripped,” he said, firmly, the way he’d talk to a new recruit back in the day.

They stared down at him, agog.

“I said I tripped,” he repeated, then held up his shackled hands as far as they’d go. “Now help me up.”

The older guard reached out, grabbed his hands and pulled. When David was upright he maneuvered himself into the van and sat, facing forward, expression blank, as if nothing had happened.

 

\--

 

It was Saturday of the second week when he was called out of his cell for a visit. They didn’t say who, so he assumed it was his solicitor. When the guards secured his handcuffed hands to the metal bar on the table, David allowed himself a smile: it seemed like Charles had learned from last time. But then, instead of staying as they usually did, the guards left through the door.

He noticed that there had been no chair set up on the other side of the rectangular table.

Through the thick fog of hunger and exhaustion it occurred to him that maybe this was when they meant to kill him. He found that he didn’t mind.

The door opened and he looked over with curiosity. What he saw sent a clarifying shot of adrenaline through him.

She was here. Wheeling herself in smoothly; David was frozen as the guard who had opened the door for her disappeared and she approached, arranging herself across from him. Dressed neatly in brown slacks and a cream jumper, small gold studs at her earlobes.

So that was why they'd left room for a chair on the other side of the table.

“Tell me the truth,” she said. “Were you involved?” Her expression was firm, but not hateful anymore. She wouldn’t have come here if she didn't doubt his guilt.

David’s head swam, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. Hope, that she might believe in him. Despair, that it might already be too late. If whoever was behind this found out about her visit, would they move to punish his family immediately or wait?

“You can’t be here,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” He looked out at the door, rose up from his seat as far as the handcuffs allowed. “Guard!” he called out.

She frowned at him. “They’re not coming.”

David sank back into the hard plastic seat. The dizzy fog had thickened and grown sharp, stabbing at his eyes and his throbbing head. “Please,” he said. “Please, you have to go.”

Her expression shifted, understanding coming into her eyes. As if he’d answered her. “Of course you weren’t,” she said. “It took watching that empty suit of a barrister of yours for it to finally click, but I should have known. If you’d wanted me dead--” a wry smile came across her face, “you’d have shot me yourself. Like that friend of yours tried to do. It’s--” she inclined her head, as if receiving a gallantry, “the honorable way.”

Were they dead already? Was there any way to stop it now? She knew and he’d be blamed and his family would be punished for it. He -- the jackhammering of his heart seemed to throb throughout his whole body and he swayed, the hot thickness in his head getting darker, so his vision dimmed around the edges.

David lowered his head between his arms. The edges closed in, dark and warm, and he felt very light. From a distance, he heard Julia’s voice.

He came back to himself moments later, feeling the cold metal of the table against his cheek, hearing her calling his name. She had come around the table; he felt her hand on his back and raised his head, trying to get the words out.

“They have the safe house address. You have to call--” he’d long ago realized that he didn’t have sufficient information to figure out who was pulling the strings, “someone,” he finished, weakly.

“God, no - David, they’re safe.” She winced and her hand started a soothing circular pattern over his back. “They’re safe. I should have led with that.” Her hand felt nice against his back, now that some of his worry had eased.

“Are you sure?” he asked, desperately wanting it to be true.

“I am, I promise.” She patted his back before continuing the circles. “David, what was that?” A flinty edge came into her eyes. “What have they been doing to you in here?”

It was too humiliating. He wouldn’t have done it if he thought there was a chance of someone he cared about finding out. He’d done it precisely because he thought there was no one who would care. “I’m fine,” he said, sitting up as if to prove the truth of his statement.

Her hand fell away and he instantly regretted it. “People,” she said, “don’t pass out from being fine.” And then she just looked at him, calmly, like she expected an answer and could wait all day if need be.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“As it happens, it does,” she withdrew further, crossing her arms to glare at him. “I came here to talk to you, not hound someone who’s clearly ill. But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.” She put her hands to her chair’s wheels and headed for the exit. “I can have you transferred to hospital.”

David opened his mouth, but couldn’t figure out how to object, so he closed it. Rested his head back down against the cool metal of the table.

 

\--

 

They used the same white van to drop him off at the hospital. He was led to a private room, with a guard posted outside. But he wasn’t shackled. He appreciated that. They gave him IV liquids, and left him there, resting on the cool, clean sheets. The bed was so soft. And, wrapped around him like a blanket, the promise Julia had made him. That everyone was safe.

She had a way of doing that. Make things all right. Things that were heavy burdens for him, like helping his son, were a moment’s work for her. He knew that this was because she had a lifetime of connections. Privilege. And other parents were tearing their hair out, helpless in the way he understood being helpless, while someone had waved a magic wand for him.

Lying in that bed, all of the terror and misery of the past six weeks lifted, he couldn’t make himself regret having a friend in high places. He certainly had enemies there. People who thought nothing of crushing him like a bug. Why not a friend too?

He was just so bloody tired. The relief from grinding pain felt like a kind of pure joy that spread through him, suffusing every atom.

He’d gone from a living death to a soft bed in a matter of hours. Strange how life could work.

The room had a window, which showed part of a red brick wall and a sliver of grey-blue sky. He fell into a peaceful sleep watching that patch of sky.

He woke later to, of all things, the sour face of Roger Penhaligon. He was looking down at his white iPhone and tapping at it.

“What the hell are you doing here?” David asked, rubbing at his eyes. The right to be offended in hospital was clearly on his side this time. Strangers weren’t just supposed to be able to wander in and stare at you.

Julia’s ex looked up from his typing. “Reporting on your condition to her highness,” he said, raising his phone aloft as evidence. It looked like he and Julia were texting. “Only way she’d go to her physio.”

Her highness. David didn’t like the way the man said that: true, there was something queenly about Julia. But he said it like it was a problem. Like a comedian making a cheap crack: _take my wife… please!_

Gladly, David thought.

“All right,” David said. He pointedly moved his eyes from Penhaligon to the door.

_Get out._

Penhaligon’s eyebrows went up and then settled into a mean, narrow little line. He looked David up and down with evident disdain. “You can’t be good for conversation,” he observed.

David was usually invisible as rich arseholes said cutting things like this to each other. Several sharp retorts came to mind, but he held them back, considering. How much had Julia relied on this man to expose the conspiracy, to help protect David's family?

The other man clearly took his silence for a victory. “I give it six months,” he sneered, and then turned on his heel and left.

David leaned back against the sheets, feeling vaguely shell-shocked. But not unhappy. Six months, huh?

Clearly, the other man thought that was a terrible insult. But he was failing to appreciate context. Julia must still, despite all good reasons against it, have an interest in him. If even his would-be rival took it as a foregone conclusion. And David had just gone from thinking he’d die alone in prison to being told he might enjoy, at minimum, six months with the woman he’d fallen for.

That was a spectacular thought. He could look after her, hold her hand through the hardest stages of physical therapy. Love her.

And maybe she would grow tired of him. He’d seen her intimidatingly large opera collection. She probably liked ballet and modern art too. His smattering of Dari, Pashto, and Arabic couldn’t hold a candle to her grasp of French and whatever other languages she knew.

But six months? He’d married Vicky when they were still both kids and spent a decade with her thinking love should be ‘til death do you part. But he knew now that it not being forever didn’t make it mean less. Didn’t make it less real. It was just real for then, for that time.

As he was mulling it all over, the nurse--Francie--came in with lime jello. She told him to eat it slowly at first. It was cool and refreshing and the best thing he’d ever tasted.

 

-

She came in dressed for her physio, loose green top and grey slacks. Sweat had curled the hair at her temples and there was a pinched look around her mouth that spoke of pain. He felt for her. Sometimes getting better hurt worse than the injury.

“How was it?” he asked, gently.

“Oh,” she said, neatly parking her chair beside his bed, “are we trusting each other with personal details now? You still haven’t told me what happened in there.” Her tone was arch, but she looked concerned.

Whatever horrors she’d imagined were far worse than the professional treatment he’d been given. He really ought to ease her mind. “No one did anything to me,” he assured her. “I gave up. That’s all,” he glanced away, shrugging. "Couldn’t eat.” His options had been few, but it was still embarrassing to admit.

She visibly relaxed. “That does happen,” she said. “I did something like that, first year of my JD,” she said and then looked horrified at herself. “Not to compare--”

“That’s all right,” he said, meaning it. He liked her style of comfort: no saccharine platitudes, just real, rubber meets the road help and matter-of-fact acceptance. It made him feel infinitely less pathetic.

She nodded. “If you’re up for it later,” she offered, “I can arrange a Skype with your family.”

David gaped at her. “Is it safe?”

Julia blinked at him. “Oh, christ, David, I’m sorry - I keep burying the lede. Yes, we’ve had traction on unraveling the whole mess.” She blew out a breath. “Suffice it to say that Stephen didn’t appreciate my using information he’d shared as I wished. And figured RIPA 18 could be passed well enough without me. Might even go down easier if I were blown to bits."

That was it? Spy games? She’d taken his tips about the PM’s addiction problem to the man himself, instead of playing whatever dodgy angle Stephen Hunter-Dunn wanted and that was enough to justify it. David tilted his head back against the soft pillow and drew in a deep breath.

“I know,” she said quietly. “Bloody awful business, people dying over politics.”

David looked down at her, searching her face. Wondering if she noticed the implications of what she’d just said. “Aye, it is, isn't it?”

She was quick to catch on, the corners of her lips twisting downward. “I was postponing this talk until you’d recovered,” she said. “But since you’re bringing it up.” Her posture straightened, so she was as tall as her chair allowed. Braced to face whatever he had to say. “How much _did_ you agree with your friend,” she gestured between them, “about me?”

"He hated you,” David admitted, bluntly. He’d held back too much of the truth before; he wasn’t going to do this like that again. “And I -- couldn't." He reached out, touched the arm of her chair, uncertain if she wanted him touching her just now. He had hated her too, for a while, so he felt a pang at the way he’d phrased that. He added: "Not once I knew you." To be clear, he hoped, without being hurtful.

He was crap at the talking about feelings part of relationships, always had been. She was the one who was gifted with words. But she’d already made her offer, so beautifully, before everything went to hell. He had to do his part.

Julia looked down at his hand, considering, and then up to meet his eyes. "But you did think I'm to blame for what happened to both of you," she probed. "Didn’t you?” Her eyes scanned over him, and he recalled that she was a prosecutor, accustomed to questioning witnesses. “Otherwise, why all the late night chats..."

Those meetings with Andy had become a feature of the Crown’s case against him.

How to explain? Honestly, but without driving her away? "I think most of Parliament was to blame,” he said. That was the simple truth. David was never going to change his mind on that. If you sent people to kill and die and be mangled, that was on you. Your choice. Which is why it shouldn’t be done so easily, and certainly not at the prompting of some lying sack of shite in the White House. “And,” he tread carefully here, measuring every word, “I think -- more anger and killing can't make things right. You have to..." he looked down at his hand, still alone against the black plastic arm of her chair. "You have to try another way,” he said, meeting her eyes, imploring her. “Something better.” There was a long moment as she took that in where David swore his heart didn’t dare beat. “I want to find a better way,” he said, desperate for her to understand.

Julia’s expression softened. She placed her hand over his and gave a gentle squeeze. “I do too,” she said. Her shoulders slumped then, the energy it took her to hold firm finally showing. He saw something of how tired she must be. The past six weeks couldn’t have been fun for her either. He’d been living a slow death, but she’d had to make sense of everything and fix it. While dealing with pain and fear over her health.

They were both bone weary. He wanted to do something about that, if he could. What was the point of clearing the air if they didn’t get something nice out of it?

David gave his hospital bed a speculative look. “Do you want to come up here?” he suggested. “For a cuddle.”

Julia lips parted and there was desire in her eyes, but not the hot flame he was used to seeing. Something gentler, that warmed without burning. “God, yes,” she said. “But it’s going to be tight. And,” she gave her right leg a resentful little smack with her hand, “you’re going to have to help me.”

“I think we can manage it,” he said, pushing the blankets aside.

She could stand, after a fashion, but her legs couldn’t bear much weight. She had to lean heavily against him and brace herself on the bed. At one point, his IV line got caught between them and they had to stop to shift it.

Julia leaned her head against his chest, breathing hard from the exertion. “This is all very geriatric,” she joked, her voice shaking.

This might not have been the best idea, with her exhausted from physio. David felt a pang of guilt and pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, stabilizing her against his body. “‘sokay, love, take your time,” he kissed her hair. “I’ve got you.”

Once they got her up onto the bed, David climbed in behind her, curling his body around hers, his arm wrapped around her. She melted back against him with a deep sigh. It was so good to have her, warm and alive, in his arms. David buried his face against her neck, breathing in her closeness. He reached out a hand and pulled the blanket up, so they were warm and safe together beneath it, before returning his arm to her waist.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered and he could hear the unshed tears in her voice. He nuzzled closer, giving her neck a soft kiss. She smelled good. He didn’t know perfumes, but she apparently did: during their time together, he’d noticed that there were several she used, depending on her mood. This one was really nice. Mellow like sage and sunshine, with a touch of warm citrus.

“It’s okay,” he replied, just as softly. Saying it out loud calmed him too, brought him comfort. It was hard to believe, after everything, but it was true. “It’s okay now, love.”

Her hand came up to clasp his where it rested against her stomach. It wouldn’t be safe to fall asleep beside her, with his issues. But he’d napped earlier, so he just held her as she drifted off. Floated in the comfort of her trust, of being able to protect her.

Something aching and torn inside his chest eased, filling with calm warmth that made the whole world seem like a better place, just because he could look at it from this embrace. He watched birds pass in the patch of grey-blue sky outside the window. Listened to the soothing hum of hospital staff passing in the corridor.

He’d give anything for six months with her, even if that was all he could have.

Holding her, helping her recover. Being the first one to kiss her again, when she was ready. The one who could show her what it was like to come back into her own body. Make it a home again, instead of a broken thing to struggle with.

If he got six months plus a couple more he could cross over the threshold with her into whatever she wanted her new life to be. Watch her thrive. A few months more and there would be new struggles to face together. He wasn’t going to kid himself: he liked to keep his head down, but she was a fighter. Driven and ambitious. She would always be drawn to trouble. But for as long as she wanted, she could let him hold her in the aftermath, and it would be all right.

 

-end-

  
_I heard a bird sing_  
_In the dark of December._  
_A magical thing_  
_And sweet to remember._  
  
_“We are nearer to Spring_  
_Than we were in September,”_  
_I heard a bird sing_  
_In the dark of December._  
  
\--Oliver Herford


End file.
